


Drowning Thoughts

by anerdwithakoreanhaircut



Category: Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: M/M, Phanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anerdwithakoreanhaircut/pseuds/anerdwithakoreanhaircut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m terrible at summaries; basically it’s an existential crisis fic, but it’s not only Dan’s existence he’s questioning, it’s also Phil’s mortality. Written in first person, you read as Dan.</p>
<p>Warnings: existential crisis, possible panic/anxiety attack trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning Thoughts

I sat in the dark wondering when oblivion would happen; wondering when I was going to leave this finite world.

I hated thinking like this; it wasn’t conductive and all it ended up doing was taking away from my limited time here.

I sighed and slowly sat up, pondering when midnight turned into two a.m. I shuffled into the lounge for no other reason than to veg on the sofa until Phil woke up. I could pretend to have just woken up before him; he’d believe me this once, right?

As two a.m. turned into three turned into four, five, six, seven a.m., my mind was drowned with all the all-too-typical ‘why do I exist’ thoughts that normally enveloped an existential crisis, but this time a more, hard-hitting question swam in: what will I do if Phil dies?

And that was the question that shook me to my core, had me doubled over, hands desperately clenched over my mouth in the hopes no screams or sobbing noise would escape. Hot tears flowed from my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks, down my neck, and soaking my thin white tee. I flipped over so I was kneeling on the edge of the sofa, forehead leaning on the back, and biting into the cushion, as the thoughts manifested into horrible scenarios of getting a call from a hospital telling me Phil had been in some horrible accident. Or him actually being the one killed in the chance a burglar broke in.

Before I had the chance of fully comprehending what I was doing, I shot up off the sofa (almost flying backwards onto the coffee table) and bolted to Phil’s room.

I didn’t bother knocking, too shaken to bother with proper manners, and sobbed out, “Phil!” taking his shoulders and shaking him awake.

Phil knit his eyebrows, hoarse voice trying to ask, ”What the hell?” but I cut him off at the start of ‘what’ by crying out, “Phil, please don’t leave me don’t you ever fucking leave me you can’t leave me pleasepleasepleasedon’tleaveme,” by the end I was starting to panic, causing my words to bleed together. I was gripping his shoulders so tightly my fingertips were turning white.

Since I was leaning over him now, my tears were dripping onto his shirt, and I had a flitting thought about maybe trying to apologise, but it was quickly pushed away by overbearing thoughts of a dying or dead Phil.

Phil reached around my waist with his left arm and put his right palm on the back of my head and pulled me down onto him, gripping me firmly, nuzzling his face into my hair.

"Shh, ‘s all righ Da. ‘M ‘kay, ‘m here," he tiredly whispers, running his palm up and down my spine.

Calming as that’s supposed to be, I can’t help but continue to sob and shake, because he doesn’t understand he could die, he could leave the flat one day and never come back he doesn’t understand he doesn’t he can’t he doesn’t-

I hadn’t realised I was hyperventilating until Phil quickly sat up, forcing my head away from him and clutching onto the sides of my face firmly. He looked me in the eyes and kept repeating, “Breathe, Dan. In, hold it, out, slowly. Breathe, you’re alright, Dan, just keep breathing…” over and over.

After around five minutes, my breathing seemed to return to something like normal, but Phil hadn’t let go of my face. His eyes flickered back and forth, searching my eyes for clarity and not panic.

"Dan?" he tentatively inquires, his tone concerned, eyes wide and full of worry.

I suck in a breath too quickly and have to whip my head away from him in order not to cough in his face. Phil slowly moves his hand across my upper back patiently.

Once I seemed to be done with the coughing, Phil tilts his head, and I can tell he wants to know what this is all about.

Before I can open my mouth to respond to an unasked question, Phil reaches out to my face and whips away streaks of tears I had momentarily forgotten.

I jerk my head away from him and quickly, harshly, swipe at my face, clearing (hopefully) all the tears. I stare at his shelving unit behind his door that’s full of random figurines and trinkets, wishing I hadn’t left my room at all.

I can feel Phil’s gaze on me, but I continue to just stare at the shelves.

"Dan?" he’s wary, because he knows how I can get after these mental battles.

He’s bared witness to countless episodes of me being literally incapable of doing nothing but laying on the floor, sofa, my bed, sometimes even Phil’s bed when I need him but don’t actually go to him, questioning my existence, wondering if I’m taking the right path, and what I’ll do if I discover I’ve taken the wrong path; I’ll wonder if it matters at all to anyone else what I do with my life, or if I’m the only one that cares. I question if I even care what happens in my own life.

Phil knows that once the feeling subsides, once I feel okay again, I don’t like to talk about it.

But this is different. All the other times Phil’s witnessed me, it’s because he stumbled upon me; I’ve never sought out his comfort ever before. But this bout of existentialism was different, too. It wasn’t just about my own existence, my own place in this world. It was about my best friend’s. Phil’s life; Phil’s existence. How his life could just, end, and how he could just leave me.

I had been fighting back tears again, but one fought its way out and slid down my cheek, which the back of Phil’s hand caught and wiped away.

“I…” I whispered, “I…I just, you…” I couldn’t continue, the words were trapped in my chest and refused to leave.

Phil seemed to understand, thankfully, that I couldn’t express what happened and took me in his arms, telling me to “just lie down, and get some rest, Dan. If you feel up to talking later on, then I’ll listen. For now, sleep.” He adjusted himself so he was laying on the right side of the bed and allowed me to curl into his left side.

“Just…please, Phil. Please don’t ever, ever, ever, leave me.” I said, not sure if he was even able to hear my just-below a whisper confession-plea.

“Dan, I dunno what went on in that head of yours, but I’ll never leave you, you sho-“

“I meant, just…” I started out at normal volume, which was loud in the otherwise silent room, but ended with a whispered, cracked, “please don’t die.”

I could feel Phil stiffen, and then relax. I know he doesn’t want to lie to me, to tell me he won’t die, because we all will. It’s one of the facts of life: it ends in death.

He wants to comfort me, but it’s difficult, because the only way to comfort me would be to tell me he wasn’t going to die, that he was going to be here, with me, until the end. But the truth is he doesn’t know that, just as I don’t know when I’ll die.

“Dan…” he sighs out my name. He turns to face me fully, and then wraps his right arm over my waist whilst his left arm cradles my head, and he tightens his hold on me. He rests his chin on top of my head, and we couldn’t be in a more awkward and slightly, physically uncomfortable position if we tried. I’m taller than Phil by almost two full inches and he can barely fit into his bed, but I scrunched to make myself fit, slightly entangling my legs with his.

And it’s in this exact moment I realise he doesn’t need to talk; he doesn’t need words to comfort me. Holding me the way he is comforts me in ways words will never be able to, and I’m so grateful for Phil in this moment.

And in this moment, in the dark, I’m not afraid to speak the words Phil has said to me countless times before:

 

“I love you, Phil."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I don’t know what this is, I’m sorry. It just popped up and I’ve been having existential issues and crises for weeks now, and reading a certain book really isn’t helping any. This isn’t even one of the fics I was originally working on, either, this is just one of those that once I got started I couldn’t stop.


End file.
